


Protect and Serve

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cop Fetish, Handcuffs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay, Safeword Use, Valve Oral (Transformers), Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl plays both parts of 'good cop/bad cop" equally well by himself.(All Jazz has to do is not reflexively stab the bad cop half.)





	Protect and Serve

The mech is a cute little black and white entertainer model, with a curvy bumper and a cheeky smile. He looks particularly good with Prowl's cuffs pinning his arms at the small of his back.  
  
"Sorry officer," he chirups, all modulated tones and irrelevance. "But what am I being arrested for?"  
  
Prowl eyes the mech with a jaded eye, circling around slowly to make sure his description of the perp is accurate.  
  
And also to get a better view of that tight, pert aft. It's superb. Prowl wants to get his servos on it immediately. He is instantly tempted to break his rules and make a grab.  
  
"I think you know fine well," he growls, stepping closer in a purposefully intimidating way. Most mechs cringe but this saucy little model merely tilts his helm to try to peer over his shoulder kibble. He has a pretty mouth, even when pursed in a mocking pout..  
  
Prowl grunts, displeased at the lack of response, and then tweaks a nearly imperceptible wire out of nimble fingers, where the mech had been attempting to pick the lock on his cuffs. He twists it in front of the neat blue visor and quirks an eyebrow.  
  
With a grin that's too confident to be truly repentant, the entertainer shrugs. "A mech's gotta make credits, Officer. Energon ain't free."  
  
"Neither is crime," says Prowl. "And there’s a 10,000 credit fine heading your way, even before I start tacking on 'resisting arrest'."  
  
The mech's pretty face drops in consternation, biting at his lip and bowing his head. "But officer! I can't pay that.."  
  
"Sell the cytar," says Prowl, uncaring. The instrument case rests on the floor beside the door to his office, dropped when he had snapped the cuffs onto the sneaky little fragger who had been trying to _break_ _in_. And now he's trying to make Prowl feel guilty; if Prowl was the sort, he would laugh.  
  
"Not my cytar!" bleats the mech. Prowl doubts there is actually an instrument in the case - it was too heavy when he had kicked it inside, probably full of stolen goods. He should crack it open and take an inventory, but he's distracted by the beautiful pleading look on his prisoner's face. "Please! I can't sell that. Isn't there anything else I can do?"  
  
It's difficult to be good when such a sweet piece of mech is trying so hard to be bad.  
  
"I'm sure I can think of something," says Prowl.  
  
He grabs the mech around the back of the neck and kisses him hard, growling against that quick mouth. There's a startled bleat, so he slides his grip to the front of the neck cabling to hold tighter.  
  
Against his frame the mech squirms and whines, although his struggles are never strong enough to even come close to freeing himself. Prowl presses further forward, revelling in the control and the heady power, until his comm beeps once with a single code. 

Warning, it means, agent about to be compromised.

The mech he is pressed bumper to bumper with is frozen still, vents stalled. Prowl lets go of his throat instantly, reaches around and unsnaps the cuffs.  
  
"Are you all right?" Prowl murmurs, the bad attitude melting from his frame. Jazz' vents hiss out a long exhale and then he relaxes instantly, limbs easing back into his normal stance.  
  
"I'm..." Prowl spots the momentary hesitation as Jazz catches himself before he tells a falsehood. Part of their agreement had been neither of them would lie about their feelings. It was a sensible decision, but Jazz sometimes needed to fight his natural instinct to fake it. "A little too intense," he says finally.  
  
Prowl nods. "Do you want to stop?"  
  
Jazz startles, visor glowing brightly for a second. "No! I wanna frag! I just..." He looks away from Prowl again. "Sorry, Prowler."  
  
"Do not apologise for being honest with me," rumbles Prowl. "I would rather you be comfortable."  
  
Jazz looks unconvinced. Prowl would like to gather him up and squeeze some reassurance into him but it may yet be a bit risky. He knows that some part of their play has stumbled across something that cuts a little too close to reality for his mate. Jazz had frozen, not from fear but from tamping down the urge to fight back. Nothing is spoiled yet, but getting an energon blade in his belly might do the trick.  
  
"Shall we dial it down a bit then?" Judging it nearly safe, Prowl eases back in for a chaste kiss on Jazz' cheek. The mech leans into the touch.  
  
"Maybe this time you're just my hot enforcer conjunx, and I'm just-"  
  
"Incorrigible," suggests Prowl, but he eases back into Jazz's personal space, letting their frames brush up against each other gently. He doesn't loom as much, keeps his hands low and moves slowly, as unthreatening as possible.  
  
As he noses along the slope of dark throat cabling, Jazz' vocaliser activates with a buzz of husky vibration. "You don't mind?" Jazz whispers.  
  
"Never," says Prowl, affection colouring his voice.  
  
"But can we put the cuffs back on? Cause that is _hot_ , my mech."  
  
Prowl kisses him gently, sweet despite the amused smirk on his lips, and nods. The cuffs click back into position and Jazz rolls his shoulders back, easing back into the stance of a meek thief.  
  
"All right," purrs Jazz, "So where were we? Gonna make me go to my knees, Prowler?"  
  
It is tempting - the chance of Jazz' mouth around his spike never to be disregarded - but Prowl's charge is running high despite their little pause and he knows exactly where his end goal is.  
  
So instead he pushes into Jazz' space again, hands on pert aft plates, and kisses him. Jazz goes pliant against his touch this time, lets himself be pushed back until his thighs hit the edge of Prowl's desk.  
  
"Open for me," he growls, barely able to contain his laugh when plating shoots open nearly fast enough to catch his digits. Underneath the protometal is wet with lubricant, spilling freely from plump mesh folds. When Prowl slides his digits across the firm mass of the anterior node, Jazz gasps and half lurches forward, shoulders straining with the want to throw his arms across his lover's neck. "You _are_ keen for this."  
  
"What can I say -" grins Jazz, wriggling his hips down further so Prowl's digits rub more firmly into his node. Instantly Prowl withdraws his servo to rub teasing circles at the edge of protoform instead. "Ugh. The hot enforcer conjunx act really does it for me..."  
  
"I'm not acting." Prowl presses the pretty frame back onto his desk, yanking hips forward to just at the edge. The mech's valve is warm and plush against his digits, even better when he pressurises his spike and grinds it forward against that slick heat. "Ready?" He asks.  
  
"Ooh," croons Jazz, visor bright with mischief. "Officer, is that your night-stick or are you just pleased to see me?"  
  
Prowl sinks forward without another warning word; the chord of pure noise that belts from Jazz' stunned vocaliser is glorious, almost as good as the sudden squeeze about Prowl's spike.  
  
It is almost too much for a few moments. Prowl shunts in as tightly as possible leaning down to press his chevron to Jazz' perky bumper. Beneath him Jazz arches up, bowing himself into a tight curve most mecha would find impossible, and Prowl runs his digits along the curl of his spinal struts.  
  
Before Jazz can regain his tongue -and therefore control of the scene - Prowl starts to move. The flex of calipers around his spike is delicious, tightening down as he pulls back and then irising open under the pressure of his forward thrust. There is a crack of charge when he bottoms out, deep nodes hammered by his thrust. Jazz makes a noise that might be Prowl's name but equally might be shocked feedback, and tosses his helm desperately.  
  
Prowl puts his back struts into it, frags Jazz until he's shoved him further onto the desk and has to pause to yank him closer. He drags him back slowly, pulling his sweet valve down caliper by caliper until he's buried deep again. Thin trails of lubricant drip down as overflow, make his entrance extra easy, and encourage the thrum of charge.  
  
His array aches with the pent up energy, and the first slow thrust is almost agony. Jazz is writhing, vents hitching and fans clattering at high speed, but his charge is just slightly too low for overload. Prowl essays a second long, slow thrust, clenching his denta to help his resistance.  
  
"Holding back?" gasps Jazz, as he goes for a third. His thighs clench so tightly around Prowl's waist he crimps cables. "You know that's not allowed, Prowler."  
  
Somehow - with the flexibility of an acrobat - Jazz manages to press the heel of his pede into Prowl's spinal strut, dragging him in tightly, and then flexing his inner protoform in a rolling wave. Prowl's chevron meets that prominent bumper again and his vocaliser garbles a plea before the next sweep of calipers drags down his spike. His vents choke and stall, and he overloads with Jazz' name humming in his throat.  
  
Normally, Prowl would prefer to get a few moments of separation to allow his charge-racked frame to settle, but Jazz is still burning hot and bound on his desk. He pulls away enough to let his spike slip free and shoves his digits in to replace what he can no longer provide.  
  
Tight hard circles against Jazz' frontal nodes make him hiccup and shiver; Prowl's digits can just press deep enough to disturb his own transfluids, and the slick minerals must feel good on the sensors judging by the hitches in Jazz' vents. The best sensors are just slightly too deep for Prowl to trip his anterior node as well, so he improvises, drops hard to his knees and licks a firm swipe over dark protoform.  
  
Jazz wails and kicks a leg over Prowl's shoulder. He's pulled in, mouth bumping clumsily over the throbbing node, sucking tight little kisses to the mesh of his valve lips, tasting the elements of lubricant and the fine minerals of his own fluids. His own array aches freshly with old arousal, but he buckles that aside and focuses his attention on mapping sensors with his digits and laving that node with his glossa.  
  
The flare of charge almost takes him by surprise, he is so determined in his efforts. Current dissipates directly across his glossa, numbing it sharply, and his digits throb with the clench of tight mesh, but he keeps going for a few moments more until Jazz sobs his name and slumps onto the desk. The leg cast over Prowl's shoulder kicks the joint of a doorwing.  
  
"Mercy, please," Jazz wheezes. His vocaliser clicks and crackles with the waves of his overload.  
  
Prowl takes one last lick, a slow stripe the full length of Jazz' valvemesh, and stands, smirking, while the mech is still burbling about police brutality.

When the cuffs click off, Jazz heaves himself upright and sags abruptly against Prowl’s chest plates with a clang of metal. He whines soft, affectionate words that warm Prowl’s core more than the superheated air his vents pour directly into Prowl’s own.

“Shall I remind you the caution that anything you say can and may be used against you in the court of law?”

“Prowler,” says Jazz, grinning pleasantly, “I’m rather counting on that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jazz totally gets his own back on Prowl for kicking his cytar case later. Afterwards Prowl cannot look at his office chair without blushing.


End file.
